


Drug Therapy

by Sadbhyl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug use/abuse, Gen, Mental Breakdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-07
Updated: 2010-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-15 14:51:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sadbhyl/pseuds/Sadbhyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock miscalculated.  John is left to put the pieces back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drug Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> Mydeira had come up with the idea of writing a story where Sherlock committed himself to a mental facility and it all went horribly wrong. John’s piece of it came to me (as it so often does with our shared brain) and I wrote it down. She never did her piece (at least not yet), so I’ve tweaked this to be a bit more standalone.

John sat at the desk, feeling like he was invading Sherlock’s personal space even as he studied every detail of the medical records he had acquired in arranging Sherlock’s release. He still didn’t know why Sherlock had checked himself into the private clinic outside of Alton in the first place. Certainly not to address his own issues. While Sherlock acknowledged his disparate collection of mental foibles with the casual and uncritical appellation of “high functioning sociopath,” he never actually saw it as a problem. He had definitely committed himself, though, meaning it was most likely related to a case. Not that it mattered anymore.

The clinical evaluation was chilling, although there was nothing in it that should surprise him. Sociopathic with bipolar tendancies, poor empathy and a fixation on crimes of violence, making him a possible threat to others. An aggressive pharmacologic regime was ordered, including antipsychotics, antidepressants, and a side shot of methadone to counter the heroin in his system. Heroin, Jesus. If he’d shot up just to improve his cover story, John would bloody well kill him. If he hadn’t, well…

Focusing on his research John tried to ignore the ghost drifting through the apartment.

It had been the same for two days. Rather than curing him, the godawful cocktail they had forced on Sherlock at the clinic had left him near catatonic. Even now, when John had cut off what meds he could and was weaning him off what he couldn’t, Sherlock shambled through the flat like a zombie, pausing here and there to stare out the window, touch his violin or the skull without recognition, pause at the refrigerator as though he’d forgotten what was inside before drifting back to his bedroom to sit idly on the edge of his bed, only to repeat the whole routine an hour later. John had to make sure he ate, encourage him to use the lavatory, help him bathe. The brilliant intellect, the meticulous habits, all of it washed away in a flood of pharmacokinetics.

John had no idea if any of it would ever return.

He rubbed his eyes wearily. Psychiatry had never been his field, and two tours in Afghanistan had put him four years out of date with the current literature. He felt like Sherlock must on a case, combing through clinical essays and opinions for even the slightest clues he could put together to form some kind of treatment to bring back the man he’d known for such a short time.

It took him too long to realize Sherlock had stopped in the middle of the lounge. He stood there, staring at the worn carpet, wavering like a tall pine in the faintest breeze.

John held his breath.

The first noise sounded like a dog’s bark, low and startled as though Sherlock were just remembering how to make sound. The second was more of a gasp, hoarsely struggling for air.

By the third, John realized he was sobbing.

John bolted from the chair to go to Sherlock, any pretense of manliness cast aside in the need to comfort his friend. Arms around him, the two of them sunk to the floor as Sherlock wept like a broken child. John tried to take it as a good sign, despite his horror at how far this astonishing man had fallen.

The sobs slowly quieted until at last they just sat there quietly, John holding him as Sherlock’s cheek pressed into his shoulder.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, the first recognition he’d given since this whole nightmare began.

“Yes, Sherlock.”

“You’re my friend John.”

“Yes, I am. And you’re Sherlock Holmes. Do you remember?”

Sherlock struggled to talk, his hands clutching at John’s arms as though pulling the words out of John to use himself. “I remember... Like a story.”

“A pretty remarkable story.”

“John...” And the spark of recognition vanished.

Sherlock stood back up and drifted to the mantle, then to the kitchen, then back to his room as though nothing had happened.

If John ever got his hands on the people who had done this, he would kill them himself.


End file.
